


Drowning is not so pitiful

by AThousandMasks



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Acceptance, And romantic relief, But still dark, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Mid-Credits Scene, Declarations Of Love, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, In which someone makes sure that this is what Bucky wants, Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not more so than the movie though, Pining, There's comic relief, slightly dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 22:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6927046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AThousandMasks/pseuds/AThousandMasks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Both you and my father were victims. It would be my honor to give one of you peace.”</p>
<p>Even with the mask, he wasn’t hard to read. T’challa moves with the power of certainty, of regal grace, and of love towards humanity. Of course he would hit it off with Steve.</p>
<p>Of course it would come to this.</p>
<p>“And you don’t think that I’ll find it, like this,” Bucky says, glancing up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowning is not so pitiful

“He will miss you dearly, you know,” a voice says, as if in question, as Bucky is scanned for cryo. It’s T’challa, he remembers, another guy who tried to kill him in revenge. This time, at least, it was for something he didn’t do. “He does not think that this is necessary.”

Bucky asked Steve to leave him alone, for this. He didn’t want Steve to think too hard about the whole thing, and Steve was still too shaken up to protest, much. It would be kinder, he tells himself. It is far kinder than allowing Steve to see himself fail, to see Steve defend him again. It is far kinder than the chance of hurting him, hurting innocents, maybe killing them, again.

“And you agree with him?” Bucky asks, instead of answering. It’s easier than answering what T’challa was really saying: why are you doing this?

Christ, he thinks. It’s a little hard, sometimes, when the guy who was trying to kill you a few days ago in vengeance goes on to question your admittedly poor life choices in the place of your best friend. _Goddammit, Steve needed to stop wearing his heart on his sleeve, Bucky could still read him and it’s been seventy-some years._

“Both you and my father were victims. It would be my honor to give one of you peace.”

Even with the mask, he wasn’t hard to read. T’challa moves with the power of certainty, of regal grace, and of love towards humanity. Of course he would hit it off with Steve.

Of course it would come to this.

“And you don’t think that I’ll find it, like this,” Bucky says, glancing up.

The man inclines his head -- affirmative. He is young, Bucky remembers. Smart, worldly, but young in the way Steve is still, sometimes. The way Bucky had been, once. He isn’t, anymore, and it scares him how he doesn’t have anything to fill it up with.

He remembers Steve, weeping after the first battle. He had held him in his arm and pulled him in. Steve tried to refuse -- something about being naive, being silly, being fine -- and Bucky saw his glow, the idealism that drove him, flicker.

_“You’re doing this,” he told Steve. “Because you dedicated yourself to fighting bullies. And some of what we do -- no, most of it -- might not be all good… A lot of it’s just hell, Stevie, isn’t it? But I’m still following you anywhere you go.”_

It was a load of shit, he was sure, coming from him. Bucky awoke from half-imagined horrors and often begged for night watch.

He remembers Steve clinging on. He remembers when Steve stopped crying, when he fell into Steve’s arm instead, both of them weeping for the lost. He remembers hearing half-whispered prayers for the war to end, soon, before the world was gone. He remembers the way his heart leapt, the way it pounds when Steve’s near.

He remembers rain, and mud, and snow, and a whole lot of skies he didn’t notice were blue.

What he lacks is this: he does not know who that person was, nor how to become him.

What he needs is this: for Steve to stop being a self-sacrificing moron, for him to look away from the past, for him to move on, because how else will he be happy?

What he sees, every time he closes his eyes, is this: blood, so much of it, so many people he’s killed, the men, the women, the girls, the boys, so many people he hasn’t killed but that they have killed instead, Steve’s team diving in for Steve and Steve for him, Howard Stark, Steve’s smile, Steve’s lips, Steve’s face -- bloodied, bruised, battered -- as he let Bucky kill him.

Now, he is in a room of glass and metal, like all fancy rooms seem to be, nowadays. The shining ceiling and floors are slightly uncomfortable (HYDRA, they seem to almost scream), but the windows are nice. He can’t help but want to look at Wakanda, a tropical nation, when he never had any memories as himself travelling so far.

So he tells T’challa, “That won’t stop me from killing him, from killing so many others. I need to know for sure.”

“You should not have to atone for what they forced upon you.”

Translation: Steve and I have compared notes. We both agree on a lot of stuff and are now bosom buddies in ridiculously righteous points of view.

“I need to atone, for myself.”

He misses Steve, so very much. And he wouldn’t change the bleeding-heart punk for the world. But the world would want to tear Steve apart so desperately for this -- and there is no way forwards without that.

“Wakanda will protect you both, should they come. And there are many paths to take.”

“I can’t do that to you, to Steve, and to everyone else. Listen, I’d deal with it if I’m sure there is a fix, some solution to this. Otherwise, I’m just a fucking time bomb.”

“There is something else.”

Silence, save for the artificial hums of machines, the whirl of fans, and the quiet peering of scientists curious to see them both. Then Bucky takes a deep breath.

“I… I can’t let him see me, like this. I can’t let him sacrifice so much for someone he barely knows, anymore. I can’t bear to see it when he realizes it. At least, like this, he won’t take the fall for it when I fail him.”

“He will not see it that way, if he is truly the man you believe him to be.”

“I’m still not too into the ‘betraying him by proxy’ thing.”

T’challa sighs, as though he’s the long-suffering one. “I cannot force your hand. And it will not be ‘if’ there is a way.”

“Whatever you say, your majesty,” Bucky answers. Then, a thought occurs to him, and he smiles, despite himself. “Don’t tell Steve I said that. The punk will never let it go if he knew.”

“He feels similarly about you, if that’s any consolation.”

“...he shouldn’t.”

He knows, by now, that things of changed. That doesn’t keep him from having a tiny heart attack, serum be damned.

“Look,” he tells T’challa. “I can’t live in fear of them -- HYDRA, the UN, any bozo with the right words -- anymore. I can’t bear to see Steve sacrifice himself again. I need some way of making sure no one else gets hurt. So I’m going to do this.”

Then, finally, the king acquiesces. “I am glad that you have told someone, even a stranger.”

Bucky blinks. Then he glares, but T’challa is also somehow immune to his death stares. Dammit, first Steve, then Sam, then what’s-his-name, and now T’challa? He’d think it was getting ineffective, but all the scientists nervously backed away.

Why are is it that there are so many secretly-perceptive people masquerading as superheros, again? You’d think that there’d be less, not more. Then again, Steve seemed to accept the whole thing with remarkable grace. Fucking dammit!

“‘M not sure that you’re exactly a stranger, after that.”

“Then I would be honored to be your friend.”

“...You didn’t actually compare notes with Steve, did you?”

“He had wondered, to me, if this would truly help you. It seems that he knows you quite well; however, I had my reservations.”

“So now you know.”

“So now I know, yes.”

“Can I ask you a very personal question?”

“I have asked you very many very personal questions, just now.”

“What’s up with the cat thing -- the panther uniform? Honestly.”

“The black panther is the symbol of the Wakandan kings. My father was him before me, and my son after myself. I believe that is a very common question, among those who have seen me outside of Wakanda.”

“So it’s not some personal hang-up, then.”

“No, it has really been an integral part of the royal tradition.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to question that. It’s just… there are a lot of superheros with personal hang-ups. And animal-inspired names. Everything… everything’s changed so much.”

“Think of it as his use of the flag.”

Bucky snorted. “Did he ever really tell you the story behind that one?”

“I believe that I have read of it, yes,” the king acknowledged, and Bucky bursts out laughing.

“God, I can’t believe I missed seeing him perform on stage, selling bonds. The punk must’ve hated it, blushed at all the showgirls and flowers, being all ‘aw, shucks’ about the whole thing.”

“There are still films, some of which are on the internet.”

“I know, I’ve seen them. It’s not the same, really. I’ve lost so much time with him.”

Who was he now? He was a man of many things, some of which he treasured and some of which he wished had never existed. He was a man with many memories and without much time. He was a man who clung to memories, but never hoped for much.

“So you will sacrifice what little you have for his sake, and for the world’s sake,” T’challa said, looking mournful. “I am sorry I tried to kill you. I am sorry I fell down the path of blind vengeance. You are a man of true honor and character.”

“Don’t put it like that,” Bucky deflected, holding still for the sake of the scientists, who were still rather skitterish.

“It is what I see.”

“I wish… Steve needs people. He has them, I know… but… I don’t know them. They don’t like me, they like Steve. And…”

Bucky drew in a long, shuddering breath, clenching his metal fist. He shouldn’t ask, he shouldn’t burden someone like that. It wasn’t fair, to do this to the first persson he befriended.

“I, too wish to atone for what I have done wrong. But that will not be why I help you. Instead, it will be as a friend that I act.”

“Well… you’re probably really busy, but… I need… I need Steve to be safe. Just… check up on the punk from time to time. Make sure he goes out and does something that’s not a mission or a workout.”

“It is not a very intrusive request. I would have done so without your asking,” T’challa states. From any other person, it would seem dismissive, almost bravado, but Bucky has a feeling it isn’t. After all, the guy tried to hunt down the legendary Winter Soldier.

“Thanks, anyway,” Bucky says, smiling, and they stand still again, this time more agreeably.

Clint Barton -- “Call me Clint”, Hawkeye, the archer, who had come to Steve’s aid, who had trusted Steve -- enters the room to approach them. “Steve wants to ask if he can come in. He’d come himself, but he didn’t want to eavesdrop.”

“You should take what little time you have,” T’challa told him, turning. Clint looks at him, like he wants to ask what happened.

“Didn’t need you to tell me that,” Bucky says, lightly.

“Steve!” Cling yells, cupping his mouth and everything.

“Thank you,” Bucky whispers, to both of them, to all of them. He is all too aware of how close he was to losing himself, how much they all helped.

“Aw, no,” Clint says. “We’re superheros. It’s all in the job description.”

“You retired.”

“I’d always be there, if they screwed up. And, really, they screwed up big-time.”

Footsteps, deliberately loud, came through to the cryo room. Steve enters -- golden hair, brick-house body, and blue puppy-eyes, still not knowing what’s good for him.

“Bucky,” he says, simply, voice almost cracking on the word. He’s accepted it, Bucky knows, but still upset. Still upset in all the ways neither of them could ever help being.

“Stevie,” Bucky replies, grinning brittlely. “You don’t need to worry, too much. Leave the major superhero duty to the Sokovia Accords and don’t get arrested. Live a little. You haven’t really been drawing, have you? I’ll be safe here, until the time is right.”

Steve doesn’t say much. The scientists finish, and Steve collapses into him. Bucky wraps his arm around the punk, and his eyes widen.

Soft lips, chapped by wind and frost that he had felt, touch his own, and he is so, so aware of their warmth, their plushness, and the man attached to them. “I’m sorry,” Steve says, backing away. “I know things are different, now.”

It is unbearable, in that moment, for Steve to move away. So Bucky pulls him closer, pressing a kiss into silky, flaxen hair.

Steve gasps, as if surprised, and -- it’s so ridiculously wonderful, for Steve to have thought over this so much, but what else should he have expected of Steve? -- Bucky wonders how could he be shocked when Bucky had told him in every glance, every action, every word that died within his lips? How could he be, being as radiant as he was?

A warmth spreads across his shoulder, and Bucky clings on tighter.

“I’m sorry I never said anything,” Bucky breathes, and Steve takes his hand.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess, Buck.”

“Look who took all the stupid with him this time.”

Behind Steve, Bucky feels the stares of his friends. Natalia looks on, harshly, already mouthing a shovel talk -- she need not worry, not about him with Steve, but it’s thoughtful; Clint looks sniffly; Wanda, the convinced sadness of youth; oh-my-god-hi-I’m-Scott-Lang amazed, whispering none-too-quietly “he’s smiling”; and Sam Wilson -- Falcon, asshole, inefficiency personified -- understanding, as if he suspected all along. And then T’challa, his own friend, who smiles mirthlessly in sympathy.

“Stevie,” Bucky says, again. They both know what will happen -- what must happen -- next. And Steve shouldn’t wait for him, not after everything.

“Just a second,” Steve whispers, hoarsely.

It will hurt, more than anything else, he knows. “Stevie. Look. I’ve… I’m… I’ve changed. And I know you’re all heart and no brains, but you need to know… we might not fit together, after. Just remember that, punk. Don’t miss out on anything.”

Steve nods, and Bucky, for once, thinks he might have gotten it. “I’m still not giving up, you jerk. You’re not changing my mind on that.”

Bucky snorts. “Heaven knows I’ve tried, Steve.”

A doctor looks at him, loudly, and Bucky knows it’s time. Gently, he kisses Steve, on the lips, and hands him off to Sam. He tries not to blink, too much. He’s never liked being frozen, nor how much it worried him that he wouldn’t come back. So he treats this like “goodbye”.

“Are you sure about this?” Steve asks, one last time, and Bucky hears the lump in Steve’s throat, sees the way his hands ball up into fists.

He nods. “I can’t trust my own mind. So until we figure out how to get this stuff out of my head, I think going back under is the best thing for everybody.”

Here’s what they never tell you: going into cryo hurts, before you freeze. It’s just a moment, but it hurts like hell, like fire, and Bucky holds still, absolutely still, hoping that Steve did not know or had forgotten about the pain. Hoping that Steve never had to feel it. Hoping -- without any hope of success -- that Steve would learn to make do.

But they never did anything by halves, did they, and Bucky loves that about Steve. It’s like how he loves everything about Steve.

(He remembers, quietly, all the times he woke up hoping for a golden man. There was a story, someone had read him, a statue and a sparrow. It was always the last thing to go, when they wiped him. They wouldn’t do that this time, he reminded himself.)

Hearing, they say, is the last sense to go. So he hears Steve’s breath hitching, knows that he has his fists balled up. But that does not last, not long enough for him to remember why it made him feel sad.

So Bucky feels the pain slip away, with warmth in his heart and a knowledge that whatever happened, Steve would have people, people who cared. And that was enough, for him.

That was all he could ask for, really, all he had originally wanted. The rest would have to wait, though his heart fluttered before stopping at last.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a reference to Emily Dickinson, although only this line really matters. The rest of the poem ended up not fitting in, fortunately for the characters' emotions, unfortunately for quotation tie-ins.
> 
> I'm prettiestdeadflowers.tumblr.com, if anyone wants to find me elsewhere. Or explain how to get links here.


End file.
